


goblin market

by ViviCatLover



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Childhood Trauma, Dimensional Travel, GRAB THE CHILD, Gen, Hobbitish Opinions On The Matters Of Food, Homeless Tommy, I HAVE THE CHILD, I didn't mean for it to get this big what teh fuck, I'm Gonna Die And It's Worth It, Raccooninnit, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Old Rules, am I going to change the total chapter amount?, and left for the nevernever, based off the size changer mod video, before he drops the physical world anyways, both wilbur and quackity are Little Folk, briefly, chat giveth and chat taketh away, he's not stuck with the folk, no because it soothes my anxiety, no beta we die to technoblade, probably not, sike I changed the total chapter amount, the forest is watching and it does not like, the wild hunt, they're found family your honor, they're stuck with him, tommy's just a human kid, will I manage to fit this in 3 chapters?, yeah people were mean to bby tommy and he decided fuck work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViviCatLover/pseuds/ViviCatLover
Summary: “It’s just butter?” Quackity mumbles, honestly confused. “There isn’t even any spices, why is he crying?”“He hasn’t had good food.” Wilbur decides with distant horror. “No one’s ever given him actual good food and this is his first time, ever.”
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & TommyInnit, Alexis | Quackity & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 50
Kudos: 415





	1. can't have shit in this metaphysical dimension

**Author's Note:**

> Tommy is a gremlin, so naturally my next thought when it comes to writing about him, was to do this.  
> Also, if you're wondering about the tags: The Fair Folk is another way of referring to the fae.

One day, Tommy decided fuck people, and dropped that plane of existence like a hot potato.

Well, it’d been a lot more complicated than that, but that's how Tommy remembers it, and if no one else remembered other than him, well, then, his version of the truth reigns supreme. 

Tommy could trace the idea’s start _alllll_ the way back to that one time he got mugged for the second time in as many days, at the tender age of eight.

Yeah. Eight. And he already knew how the world worked, too! All grown up and a perfectly valid mugging target, apparently.

He remembers blowing his nose, examining the resulting glob of dried blood, and thinking to himself, _I didn’t even do anything?_

He couldn’t have articulated (look at him, using fancy words!) the question, back then, but now, he’d decided it’d been something along the lines of, _Are people just like this?_

A couple years later, he’d decided the answer, on the whole, was a simple, _Yes._

The solution was simple. He’d already been self-sufficient for a while. He could just go somewhere where there weren't any people, and never have to deal with them again. He congratulated himself on his cleverness, and set off to do exactly that.  
  
Unfortunately, that was kinda… hard. Definitely easier said than done.

But! Little Tommy refused to give up so easily. Just settling with some remote village was a coward’s way of doing things, and Tommy refused. He refused to rest until he was certain that no one was ever gonna see him again. Not the bad way though. Little Tommy violently protested being vanished, thank you very much.

Between dodging kidnapping attempts for both good and ill, and eating whatever he could catch, Tommy was pretty proud of himself, as he should be. Just the other week, he’d come across a boar carcass, so fresh, the blood was still warm! He’d gotten as much jerky as he could carry, and then some. His pack had broken, and he’d had to leave a lot of it, but still! Tommy could gorge himself for a week, and he’d still have a bit left.

Tommy worried that he’d attracted the wrong attention again, with that stunt. Someone, maybe several someones, had been following him since the carcass, he swears. He hasn’t spotted them yet, but he knows they’re there! Just out of sight! For sure! 

….Maybe he shouldn’t have taken as much as he did, but he’s a growing boy, he needs it more, more than anyone who could kill a boar ever could. Who knew when he’d have gotten another chance like that! Maybe never, and he’d have died without it! 

Yeah… Tommy honestly doesn’t regret the act of stealing the meat and booking it, he just wishes it didn’t break his bag and get him in trouble at the same time. 

Or, more trouble than just being a kid did, he guessed. There were a surprising amount of people who paid attention to that sort of thing, more than he’d thought at first. Maybe these people were one of them. 

Tommy heard a branch break behind him, and steeled his spine. He wasn’t gonna run away, this time. Maybe they were nice! It’d be a first for him in like, ever, but maybe he should do what all those old codgers on the street told him and have some trust in the world. Whoever this was had netted him some boar meat. How bad could they be?

Pretty bad, it turned out.

“NOT NICE, NOT NICE,” Tommy shrieks, running as hard as he could, flickering hounds close on his heels. He could practically feel their breath on his back, and he had no room to try to lose them. Maybe if he’d run, he’d have been able to, but unfortunately, Past Tommy had been a fucking loser and had NOT run when he should have. Tommy internally resolves to never be like Past Tommy ever again.

_First, though,_ Tommy thinks, biting his lip, _I’ve gotta get outta here._

Tommy swerves around a tree so hard that chunks of grass get ripped up in his wake, and he hears a yelp. He glances over his shoulder, and fortunately, it’s run straight into the tree. That’s one taken care of, at least until it catches up again.

Tommy’s feet throb, his heartbeat roars in his ears, and Tommy’s never felt more alive. On a whim, he aims for a far-off fallen tree, small enough for him to jump over.

He doesn’t, though.

He slides _under_ , to the other side, and hugs the bark, shuddering. Tommy hadn’t spotted any sharp edges, but for a second, he could have sworn a thousand shards of bark had slithered over his skin. 

Tommy couldn’t have been able to tell, at the time, but he’d just crossed between worlds, or planes, or whatever. He’s slipped in like a fish into a pond, and the ripples he sent out could be read by anyone who knew how for kilometers.

But Tommy didn’t know any of that.

All he could hear was the pounding of hooves, the howling of wolves, and his own heartbeat. Most of the riders sailed over his head, and he peeked out to watch them thunder back down to earth.

These were no ordinary hunters. They rode steeds of elk and deer and so many things he couldn’t name, and leashed strange creatures to be their hunting dogs. Their forms ranged from humanoid to the macabre, and Tommy's eyes were so wide, he swore they nearly fell out.

The impression was slightly ruined by their various scuffs and scrapes, as if the forest had decided to specifically fuck _them_ over instead of Tommy for the entire ride.

One turned their spherical, white head to bark an order at another, and Tommy ducked back under the trunk, burying himself from sight as best he could. He did his best, scrubbed dirt into his bright hair, hunkered down, and waited. For them to give up. For a miracle. Whichever came first.

_Thwack._

_Thwackthwackthwackthwack-_

“Aw, shit,” One of the hunters groans, and the one who’d been giving orders says, “What-?” before being drowned out by the sound of objects hitting leather. “What the _FUCK?!_ ” Tommy hears it roar between deluges, before it gets buried again.  
  
“We need to get out of here!” “Shitfuck some brat isn’t worth it-” “OW!” 

_Tommy_ flinches, that’s how painful whatever’s happening out there sounds. 

“MY FUCKING EYE-” One howls, and a stampede of footsteps (cloven, pawed, and footed alike) forms, running away with urgent speed. 

“LANGUAGE, ALL OF YOU!” Tommy hears _another_ hunter yowl, before the hunting party fades out of his hearing altogether. 

Even the trees have ceased their rustling, as though holding their breath would help them escape notice.

Hesitant birdsong starts up again eight minutes later, and after them, the rest of the forest falls in line. Tommy’s body untenses all at once, leaving him exhausted.

“WHOO!” Tommy celebrates quietly. Dirt pours down from the hole walls as he wiggles free, whining quietly with effort, until he flops onto open ground. 

Fuck, that was way harder than it should’ve been. He digs into his pocket for some jerky and stuffs it into his mouth, chewing vigorously with his cheeks puffed out. 

It’s salty and tough on his tongue, but he manages to choke it down, hacking out a cough. He pulls his legs out after himself and rolls half-heartedly away from the fallen tree trunk, an arm draped across his eyes. “Fuuuuuuuu...ck!” 

Tommy just lays there awhile, legs & lungs burning, trying to recover enough energy to at least stagger into cover. 

Despite his… _everything_ hurting with every movement, Tommy clawed at the ground, dragging himself into the underbrush. Leaves rasp at his skin, and Tommy curls up under a particularly thick bush, eyes heavy.

He slaps himself, and shakes his head like a dog. He can’t fall asleep right now. He’s gotta be ready to fight….snzzzz...

Tommy’s body, fed up with the minimal sleep and food it had been receiving as of late, committed mutiny and conked itself out in protest.

Something slipped through the tree canopy, disturbing leaves with its passage, slowly circling towards Tommy’s bush.

The branches creaked as they were moved aside for it to lean in and look, and the still air of the clearing was broken by a gasp, followed by the sounds of it retreating from the boy, feet impossibly quiet against the crackly forest floor.

The forest carried on. They knew it, and it knew them. Besides, it’s problem was with the Big Folk, not the forest. Quite the opposite, they tended to assist with its kin’s vengeance upon the Big Folk for trespassing, like they had earlier.

Speaking of kin. The little folk gave the bush a nervous look, darted back into the space in the forest it called home, and fetched his, to inform his brother that he’d missed the reason _why_ the Hunt were there by a spider silk thread.

And to tease him, of course, but that is not the focus of our time here, is it not?

We’re here for the boy.

The two return, one laughing, the other with a stormy expression, and alight on the bush. One punches his smaller counterpart in the shoulder, sending him careening away, and he returns, pouting.

They search the boy, lifting him into the air, going through his things, and decide the boy is a guest, and should be treated accordingly.

Oh, not like _that_. The Big Folk are so unsubtle, so controlling, so harsh. They take, but they do not give.

The Little Folk are the opposite. 

They wrap him in an embroidered blanket they’d found next to a long, oblong pit, oh, a season ago, and the boy is young, yet, it takes them both to wrestle him into it. They find their store of tinder, and it’s just enough for a fire that would keep the boy comfortable. One asks the forest for the wood no one will miss, and it humors him, as it always does. 

They gather as many things as they can handle, thank the forest, and set to work.

The forest gives them what they need, for it has guarded them since it was a third of the age it is now, and in return, they have guarded it from those it cannot touch, and restored what they have taken.

They have been good to it, as all Little Folk have been to their chosen homes.

Tubers wrapped in wet leaves roast in the coals, and mushrooms roast over flickering flame.

The boy shifts, rolling closer to the fire, and snuffles in his sleep.

The smaller one squeaks, flying into a tree from where it was tending the mushrooms, and the larger awws from his place by the tubers, hands stained black from turning.

It lifts off, too, as the young boy starts to stir, and joins its partner in crime to watch what happens next.

The boy snorts, and a leaf gets sucked into his mouth.

Instantly, Tommy is wide awake, and gagging on it. His fingers fish it out and discard it on the ground. Tommy spits and hacks until the godawful mildewy taste fades, nose and eyes streaming, wiping away the liquid with a sleeve.

He’s… _warm?_

For the first time, he notices the thin blanket swaddling him from the hips-down, previously around his shoulders, and automatically hikes it back up.

Where is he?

Last he remembered was crawling under a bush after some wild shit happened, and then…

Tommy’s eyes go wide, and he stares down at his body accusingly. “Traitor…” He whispers.

Wilbur, hidden with Quackity in the treetops above, is dying of silent laughter. Not even ten seconds awake, and he could already tell the boy was bold as brass.

Quackity, the chickenshit. Whatever reason he’d discovered to justify being scared of a little-ittle thing like this, Wilbur couldn’t find it.

Tommy’s head jerks away from staring accusingly at himself to look around the clearing. The most important thing he sees is this: a fire, something cooking over it and in the coals, as far as he could tell.

And whatever those things on the fire were, they smelled _delicious_. 

His stomach rumbles treasonously.

He shouldn't. They could be poisoned, the person who made them could still be nearby- oh, fuck it. It wasn’t like restraint was one of his strong suits, anyways.

Tommy snatched the roasting stick and nearly poked an eye out wrangling one of the bulbs off.

“Hot, hot, _hot_ ,” Tommy hissed, passing it from one hand to the other. The instant it went from burning hot to just under that (hey, Tommy doesn’t know the word, okay!) he chowed down.

Unsurprisingly, heat erupted into his mouth on the first bite, and Tommy swallowed as quickly as he could. He swore he could trace the trail of heat the morsel had left from his throat to his stomach, if he wanted to.

He repeats the process for the next.

“Think he knows he can just hold it with his sleeves instead of his hands?” Quackity wonders idly, and Wilbur scoffs. 

“He’s tall folk. They aren’t _that_ clever.”

Tommy uses the stick to prod the other stuff out from the fire, looking around for any people. On the first bite, he bursts into tears and ravages the rest of the meal in short order.

“It’s just _butter_?” Quackity mumbles, honestly confused. “There isn’t even any spices, why is he crying?”

“He hasn’t had good food.” Wilbur decides with distant horror. “No one’s ever given him actual good food and this is his first time, ever.”

Quackity stares at him, struck dumb by even the thought that a child wouldn’t have tasted good food, ever. He knew tall folk could be assholes, that they stomped through forests and killed little folk and tried to drive them out, (a certain masked leader of the Wild Hunt came to mind) but to not even give someone good food? Food was sacred! Everyone knew that!

Quackity looks at Wilbur, and Wilbur looks back. They nod at the same time.

The tall ones have lost their ownage rights. If they couldn’t even feed the boy something good, then they shouldn’t get to have him at all.

It’s official. The boy is _theirs_ , now. 

  
  
  


Tommy swallows his final bite and looks around the clearing.

“I know you’re there. And I don’t want your pity!”

“Don’t need it, anyways..” Tommy scoffs, and something small and hard bounces off the top of his head. 

“Well, fuck you too.” Tommy cusses out his watchers, putting on a front of anger.

It might even have worked, without his eyes.

They’re bright, practically shining with positive emotion, and this time, Quackity joins Wilbur in feeling their non-existent hearts melt.

“Forest,” Wilbur asks the instant the boy falls back asleep. “I don’t want him to leave, how can we get him to stay?”

The trees creak and groan and very pointedly do not answer.

Wilbur stomps his foot petulantly, but doesn’t try to argue with it. They’ve been down that road, and it always ends with Wilbur being paranoid for a few days, getting into an extraordinary mess despite his efforts, and then scrubbing. He’d have to endure the cursed scrubbing for _days_ before he’d feel anywhere _near_ clean again.

Quackity slaps his fist into his palm. “We gotta get him to want to stay.”

“Brilliant, amazing, you’ve always been my favorite,” Wilbur coos, affection oozing from his every word, and Quackity turns on a time instantly to smack him.


	2. everything is not what it seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plant monologue, some cooking, scouting out some weird crap, and Philza arrives!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a tiny bit of a timeskip in this chapter. During the first bit, he's been hanging out with them for about a year, during the latter part, he's been staying in the forest for two years. Dream never gave up looking for him, and is frequently driven off by an unseen Wilbur, with the forest's assistance.

Tall Ones, folk and Folk alike, have always believed plants to be peaceful things.

They imagine all they think of to be sunlight, and water, and fertilizer. Simple, innocent things.

Plants do think of such things, sometimes. But it is not _all_ they think about. Theoretically. Far from it. Warfare is their favorite topic.

A mint might be particularly sly, when it comes to genocide of the surrounding plantlife. It leaks poison into the ground, salts and burns what is left, and moves in.

Blackberries and kudzu are murderous, plain and simple.

They starve out the competition, burying survivors and corpses alike under leaves and roots.

Theoretically, to those who knew how to listen to plants, every forest sings a desire for blood and malice that can’t be unheard.

Unless it is rather fond of you in particular, theoretically, in which case, it would want to share.

Purely theoretically, of course.

If Tall Ones actually believed their crops could get involved in their disputes, who knew what would happen as a result.

Nothing good.

So, no one tells them, for the same reason Little Folk required such intricacies to be properly perceived in the first place.

What a shame, Wilbur thinks, tucking a seething strawberry under one arm. Imagine the dishes they could have made, with such help.

Wilbur’s wings flutter, and with a bit of extra effort, he lifts the strawberry up with him and away from the main part of the twisted brambles.

He flicks a hand, sound pouring off his fingertips like a stream off of rocks, and the strawberry bush perks up, a new bud sprouting from where he took the one in his arms.

“I’ll bring some rabbit mulch by later.” He promises it, and flits off.

As he flies, he plucks off the leaves from the top. The seeds can wait until he makes it back home proper.

Speaking off, Wilbur can smell boiling pie filling from here. He doesn’t bother to follow the scent’s actual path and just takes a direct path to the source.

A linked pair of modest cauldrons bubbles over a stone-lined hole, held in place by warped, old roots and Wilbur alights on one of them. He braces a thin piece of bark against the edge of one of the many seeds and starts gouging them out of the fruit, stacking them in a neat pile to his right.

_198.. 199.. 200.. 201.. 202.._

It takes him a bit, but he suffers through it anyways. It might have been easier to use the _other_ variant of strawberries in the forest, smooth, seedless, and plumper than normal, except, Wilbur doesn’t really care for them. Too spiced. Quackity does, which is why he’s collecting his own, the resulting jam bubbling away in Quackity’s cauldron.

Wilbur sweeps up the seeds into a pocket, grips the one half of the strawberry, plants his feet, and with a tug, splits it in half. He shoves one half off his perch and into the bubbling liquid below, and then the other. 

Wilbur’s ears pick up a faint sound, and he turns his head towards the source. If he squints, he can make out a twig-thin figure in the trees, struggling to balance an armful of _something_.

Wilbur huffs. Figures that Quackity got Tommy to help him when the boy can’t even see him in the first place. 

Nevertheless, Wilbur abandons watching his cauldron bubble in favor of flitting towards the pair to help. 

“Hi Wilby!” Tommy says brightly, and Wilbur very determinedly does not flinch. “Quackity showed me these,” He lifts his arms up a bit, nearly spilling a few berries before the aforementioned fairy nudges them back into place. “I think I heard him a bit, this time. Still can’t see him, though,” And Tommy pouts.

“Really? That’s fantastic!” Wilbur tells him, and watches as Tommy’s shoulders straighten up, chin lifting proudly. Poor little dude, so starved of good food _and_ good praise.

Wilbur hefts a particularly unstable-looking fruit from its place on Tommy’s pile. “Most Tall Folk will take what, a couple years, to get that far? And you managed it in half that!”

Tommy puffs out his chest, deigning to admit, “I’m so smart. Smarter than everyone.”

Wilbur shakes his head with a laugh, and tells him, “Well, if you’re going to be so humble, why don’t you sit down ‘n’ pluck all the leaves offa those, while me ‘n’ Quackity stir them in?”

Tommy groans, “Wilby _yyy_ , no, please, anything but that, I’ll take it back!”

“Nope!” Wilbur chimes. “You’re on leaf duty, this time.”

If Tommy could hear how hard Quackity was laughing, he’d- well, Wilbur doesn’t _actually_ think he’d do much, except maybe pout, but it’s better not to take the risk. 

Tall Folk could be unpredictable, after all.

* * *

“I don’t like this,” Quackity preaches to the choir.

Tommy, who’s already laid down in the oblong, shallow pit (it comes up to his knees), chimes in, “I don’t know about you bitchboys, but this is pretty neat. I wonder what made it?”

“That’s the worst part.” Quackity complains. “We don’t know.”

Wilbur elbows him. “Oh no, you don’t know something, what _ever_ shall we do, oh guardian fairy?”

Quackity shoves him back. “Oh, I don’t know, why don’t _you_ come up with something, oh wise one, if you’re so keen on it.”

“Guys?”

“Oh, what praise, coming from you, of all fairies!”

“Fuck you!”

“Aww, got your feelings, hurt, huh?

“GUYS!”

They stop bickering as one to turn on Tommy. “WHAT?”

Tommy points. 

Far off, what they’d assumed to be a particularly large tree snaps in and out of view.

“Found what made it.”

Wilbur follows what he dimly recognizes to be a _leg_ upwards, to a torso so large, the fact this being even exists feels like it cheated the universe in a cosmic game of poker. 

Parts of the clouds flicker in and out with the rest of the humanoid, and Wilbur realizes that those aren’t clouds. They’re _wings._

The final, damning piece of evidence for whatever it is being a whole ass sapient larger than a mountain, is a gigantic bucket of a green and white striped hat, so high Wilbur can barely even make it out. Is this dude so tall, he got a hat like that, just to say he's literally _snow capped?_ Wilbur is very firmly in the territory of bamboozled, edging into perplexed.

How hadn't they noticed him earlier, Wilbur had no idea. He just… felt like a tree. That quietly leashed anger and resignation, the bridled bloodlust, the whole ten yards.

  
  


Phil himself had, quite honestly, been having an absolute whirlwind of a day. He’d been minding his own business, doing his decadely trip down south to visit, and some _majorly_ stubborn dude with pink hair had tried to wreck his shit.

The guy hadn’t expected Phil's wings to throw him off, fortunately. Those cuts on the back of his ankle had _hurt, goddamnit,_ and Phil was forced to deal, because the guy had managed to climb up to his damn wing joints, too, and ground him _that_ way.

They’d heal, but it was the principle of the matter.

So. The trip.

Phil had been using the path he always did, trying not to scare any of the animals too badly, when he’d looked back to double-check that he hadn’t stepped on anything _(or one,_ his mind shuddered in disgust), only to spot something vaguely person-shaped in one of his sandal prints.

Phil blinked, concerned, and turned the rest of the way around, looking closer. 

No one.

Phil blinked again, and as his eyes opened, the shape wavered back into view for a split second, before vanishing completely. Almost like a mirage. Or, a glamour.

Phil furrowed his brow.

He sensed shenanigans. 

Phil stared harder, tweaking a few mental settings, and the shape shifted into view for a longer moment.

Freezeframe.

Young, blonde hair, adolescent?

The kid disappeared, and a wave of dismay swept over Phil like an unstoppable tide.

Phil doubled back as quickly as he could. The kid starts flickering faster, stuttering in and out of visibility. 

Start. In Phil’s footprint. Stop. Phil’s managed to cover half of the distance between them. Start. He’s climbing out. Stop. Phil’s in reaching distance. Start. Kid’s over the lip and starting to run into the trees, and Phil goes on his knees, trying to block him. Stop. Phil’s hand goes through where the kid used to be. Start. The kid’s rolled a finger’s breadth away, and Phil lunges again. This time, he nearly manages to get a grip, before the kid vanishes into empty air. 

“Fuck!” He spits, and the kid wobbles back into view. “Kid, I’m just trying to,” The kid dives into the undergrowth. “Help…”

The trees shuffle and stir with the force of Phil’s frustrated sigh, and he sits back on his heels.

He palms his face, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and mutters, “Probably should have expected that.”

The nature around him somehow conveys amusement, through various coiling and wiggling of grasses and vines.

Phil squints, a finger raised to start telling them off, and then realizes he was about to try to _lecture_ _a magic forest_ , and he deflates like a sad balloon. 

Yeah, he isn’t going to be picking that fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know. This was a bit of a struggle to write, and the pacing was hell, too! Phil's some breed of Jotun, and he's heading down south to check on Antarctica. I know y'all probably spotted Technoblade in this chapter, but don't worry! He's coming back in the next one! Any guesses as to why he's in the area...?  
> also. I wrote this whole chapter a bit ago and the day of posting it, turns out I'm fucked up on dentist drugs, but y'all getting it anyways


	3. run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run run run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy has a bad time, and Technoblade finds what he's been looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoy this. I went on a depression spiral and just got this finished, so, comment what you liked I guess. I know it's awkward as shit. sorry.

Tommy curls up behind a tree, closes his eyes, and lets the hysteria swirling in the back of his head overwhelm him.

He giggles, laughing hysterically. His lungs begin to heave, and he can hear his heart in his ears, and he’s gasping, now, he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ -

Tommy hiccups, and his back scrapes against the tree. He brings his hands to his face, and his cheeks are wet. He pulls his shirt up, scrubbing at the tears. His skin hurts. 

His breaths shake, stop-starting over and over, and it reminds Tommy of his first cicada season, how the sound had drilled into his head like a toothed worm. 

He drops the hem of his shirt and his hands are _trembling_. Tommy’s face twists into a scowl, eyes squinting into a matching glare.

Tommy thought his body would have dealt better with running, by now. That _he_ would be better at it. 

Tommy shifts, and the roots around his legs creak in protest.

Tommy scoffs, and says, “Fuckers, I don’t need you to comfort me,” to no one. Contrary to his harsh words, Tommy is careful as he peels away the vegetation, one plant at a time. He unwinds some mallow coiled lovingly around his ankle, and it whispers _we’ll always be here_ to him. Tommy clears his throat, hacks out some guck onto the grass, and looks away, eyes distant. 

Tommy threads the mallow around his wrist, roots and all, and it obliges him, clinging close, wrapped around his pulsepoint. The mallow wiggles into a better position, vines slithering across his skin, and once satisfied, settles against his skin contentedly. 

Tommy staggers to his feet, takes the first halting steps, and tries not to think about where, exactly, Wilbur and Quackity had gone.

* * *

  
  


"I've been thinking of adding ‘Giant Slayer’ to my titles," Technoblade says conversationally, resting his blade against the hollow of Philza's throat. "You have two minutes to convince me otherwise."

The fallen giant swallows, a bead of red pooling on his neck, and from Technoblade's position on his collarbone, Philza's face is practically an open book. 

"What do you want."

"Oh, I want a lot of things."

Philza's face spasms. He grits out, "What do you want. From me."

The sword digs deeper for another second, before Technoblade withdraws it with a disappointed noise. “Wish you were uncooperative,” He complains, “This would have been funner, for me, if you were. Oh, well.” 

Technoblade wipes the blood off on Phil’s shirt, and he feels indignation swell in his chest, his face reddening. But he doesn’t move. He can’t afford to provoke Technoblade, with him so close to Phil’s jugular.

Technoblade grimaces. “I owe a favor to the head of the Wild Hunt.”

Phil sucks air through his teeth. 

“Yeah, it’s not ideal.” Technoblade shrugs. “He asked me to hunt down a kid for him, in a nearby forest.”

Technoblade shakes his head. “Couldn’t even find the damn thing, he gave such shitty directions. The hell is ‘turn left at the faeberry thicket and keep going until you see a fallen tree trunk’ supposed to mean? So,” Technoblade brings his sword up again. “You know anything about a wild kid with blonde hair?”

Phil tenses against his will. 

Plans flicker across Phil’s mind, each being discarded, before he manages to decide on a course of action.

He starts with moving excruciatingly slow, right hand creeping closer to his body.

“Oh, so you do know something,” Technoblade drawls, eyes fixed on Phil’s face. “That’s fortunate. The last five of you didn’t know a thing, and I’ve been getting kinda tired of harassing the locals, as impossible as it sounds.”

Normally, Phil would say he is slow to anger. Normally, the bubbling broth of rage that his thoughts are gradually becoming would have taken months to get this intense.

“He’s a _child,”_ Phil snarls, and under Techno’s boots, the giant’s chest rumbles in warning.

Technoblade chooses to chuckle anyway, as if enjoying a private joke. “Maybe so.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Phil spits, and Technoblade laughs, full-out. He even goes as far as to close his eyes in mirth.

Phil curls his hand into a particular shape, shuffles it that tiniest bit closer, and strikes.

The flick sends Technoblade flying, and Phil surges to his feet, calves bleeding and aching to high heaven. 

Phil tenses, crouching low, and prepares for take-off. 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Phil faintly hears Technoblade say over the sound of air filling his wings.

The first downstroke blows Technoblade well out of earshot, along with everything else, resulting in a maelstrom of plants and animals (Phil feels a twinge of guilt as a particularly unfortunate fox gets whipped past his face) alike. 

During the next few wingbeats that are required for him to get properly in the air, Phil can distantly hear trees coming off the ground, and the grass below being stripped away by roaring winds.

Then, it reverses. Phil’s quickly vacating mass sucks air after it, creating a vacuum, and Phil glances down to watch Technoblade get pummeled by a flying tree. He winces, looks away, and flies higher. When he reaches a good height, he tips his wings into a glide, and soars back the way he came.

He has to find the kid before Technoblade does, and if he doesn’t, there’ll be a child’s death on his hands, or worse.

  
  
  


Techno runs his tongue over his teeth, gathering up the grit, and he spits, wiping at his mouth with a hand. After Philza’s.. Abrupt departure, he feels like every inch of skin he has is bruised, and some of the muscles underneath, too.

He lifts his face to the sky. His eyes dart across the clouds, looking for the slightest discoloration, and manages to catch the fading outline of Philza’s shadowed wings, soaring north.

Technoblade grins through the concussion, peels himself off the ground, and follows, Dream’s favor burning in his chest like a piece of pitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am most tired, and I am writing more of this, as I can. Quackity will be as scared of Technoblade as ever, Wilbur will save the day, Philza will be terrible at covering his tracks, all, next time on goblin market! (Also, should I have someone go to a goblin market in a flashback or otherwise, just for the title, y'all think?)

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know in the comments what ya think. Hint: This is based off the Size Changer Mod video.  
> I've had brainrot for this au for the past two weeks and honestly? worth. 15 pages so far.   
> poggers, y'all


End file.
